Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts

Thursday, March 19, 2009


Thursday, October 30, 2008


Thursday, September 25, 2008

Poop babies

Many moons ago, I created drawings of disturbing people I called "poop babies." Tonight, I start the task anew.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

Notes from last week's team meeting

I had forgotten about the "notes" I took during last week's meeting. Apparently it was a study in the origins of a neurosis.

1. Working through the issue with a therapist.

2. Uncovering the repressed memory.

Monday, July 21, 2008

Awesome dragon does little to distract from shitty car

Moblog: Holiday station at the corner of Cliff Rd and Nicols in Eagan. This same dragon is on both sides of the vehicle.

Update: I forgot to mention when I posted this that I was not the only person who had pulled into the parking lot with the sole purpose of taking a photo of this rolling wonder. Right after I parked haphazardly in front of the store, another car parked right around the corner of the building. The pair of teenagers inside were laughing when one of them stumbled out of the passenger side, barely able to maintain composure long enough to aim his cell phone at the car.

Monday, June 16, 2008

That's incredible

I was inspired by seeing The Incredible Hulk yesterday. Click for biggie.

Friday, May 09, 2008

Hide a schlong

As you know, I'm quite the artist. That is one of the many reasons why I was quite excited when I found the Penis Camouflage site. The theme I was given was "Escape," and I created a masterpiece titled "Escape from the house of horror." Click on the link, then click on the "reveal" button below the picture. I hope you enjoy spanking to it as much as I did creating it.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

(Road) trippin' balls: Omaha part 3

Jeremy's Road Journal (with loads of penises!)

Max had the fantastic idea of buying small notebooks for all of us to entertain ourselves during the 5 hour drive to Nebraska. We played mad libs, wrote dirty haikus and limericks, and drew twisted pictures. During one gas station stop, I upped the ante by purchasing crayons.

My road journal and activity book is eco-friendly. My ass, unfortunately, spews out enough CO2 on a daily basis to destroy 100 acres of rainforest.

A haiku:
Omaha d-bags
crammed in a black car
I wish I had flown

Followed by a chinless man car surfing on a giant spooge-spewing dick and ball sack tied to the roof of a Caprice station wagon with faux wood paneling, which is running over a hobo and overtaking a brain-damaged railroad engineer on unicycle. The symbolism needs no explanation whatsoever.

POP TARTS. More like pop farts. Oh, I am so clever!

This drawing of a spooged-on chick sitting in a corner with a cloth that has been unceremoniously whipped onto her face from out-of-frame by a pantsless cad inspired a limerick.

There once was a young woman in the corner
Who had to decide between porn or
A job at the Y
But that chafed her thighs
So what the fuck did she choose porn for?

Next we decided to do a Superbad-style collection of drawings of anthropomorphized penises.

"A Trip to the Zoo"

A family of penises, including a dad, son, and little baby penis in a stroller, gaze curiously at a caged, hairy reticulated penis. The older son has several balloons, while the baby penis only has one. He's so tiny that three balloons would most certainly carry him away!

"Baby's First Bottle"

A mother penis tenderly looks over her baby penis, who has just spit up on her testicle shoulder after his first bottle.

The limerick at the bottom of "Baby's First Bottle" was inspired by passing a pasta plant near the freeway:
There once was plant that smelled like a noodle
That drew my attention from my penis doodle
I bought a bottle of sauce
Gave my doodle a toss
Then drifted off to sleep, good night, toodles

This bib overall-wearing farmer penis is smacking his cow on the tail for some reason.
There once was a giant cock at the zoo
As well as a cow that said moo
But the cock was an ass
And the cow was aghast
But if a cock slapped your tail you'd be too


Bronto poop.

These guys are happy to provide a reference of scale. "Just standin' by some bronto poop. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Felipe Rojas-Lombardi watches over us all

The late chef Felipe Rojas-Lombardi is often credited as bringing the concept of tapas to America. Included in his 70s-era children's book The A-To-Z No-Cook Cookbook, was a portrait of chef Rojas-Lombardi. I thought this warm, calming portrait needed to be framed and hung in the IT Department to bring a touch of class where previously there was none.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

Salad shooter

Ang and I have been trying to improve our diet lately, which entails eating out less and eating healthier food at home. Recently I've started making smaller entrees and starting us out with a salad of dark greens, sometimes with tomatoes or walnuts. This sudden up tick in roughage intake seems to have shocked my system, as my grease factor has shot up from an upset Jell-O to a furious 10W-40. Perhaps this isn't all bad because I've been long overdue for a core to door Roto-Root.

Today's morning outlay was the worst (or best?) so far, a top notch wall scraper that took away the paper and the glue behind it. First came a 2 foot long troll arm that shot out like I'd jumped on a tube of toothpaste. I had to stand to keep the tail from browning my balls. Then came the sundae topper, a gigantic, glistening, near-perfect sphere of feces the size of a bocce ball. Its structural integrity was a complete mystery to me, as it looked like something you should see melted on the sidewalk outside of an ice cream shop in August.

In the water surrounding this two-tiered wonder was a swirling vortex of what was quite clearly the undigested veins from spinach, endive, and mustard greens. It looked like a curled up hedgehog pinning down a snake in an eerie skeletal salad. The whole mass was worthy of display at the Walker Art Center. I've already received a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. Expect a showing soon.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

I smell a Tony award

This poster has been hanging in our break room for a while, but I never paid it much mind until today. It's for a big gala Christmas show at one of the area megachurches in Lakeville.

What really jumped out at me (aside from the tasseled cowgirl giving the "cowboy power" salute) was this breathless quote shouting the wonders of the show to the hills and villages beyond.

Well shit, son! If it's good enough for dude from Waseca County Tours, then I'll take 3, please. I heard Les Mis limped anemically between various community theater groups until Waseca County Tours gave it a glowing review. Then it was gangbusters, baby!

But it gets better. Not only has the most prestigious tour company in Waseca County, Minnesota given it the thumbs up -- brace yourself now -- the website says this show has been named a 2007 Top 100 Event (PDF link) by the American Bus Association. Yes, THE American Bus Assocation! You can double that ticket order knowing this show is perched amongst national entertainment treasures like Quilts in a Material World: Selections from the Winterthur Collection in Winterthur, Delaware and the Des Moines Arts Festival in Des Moines, Iowa. And let's not forget the World Chicken Festival in London, Kentucky. As if we COULD forget!!

So wake the baby, dig up grandma, and kennel the dog, folks. This one's gonna be a barn burner!

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Behind the Penmanship: Anatole D'Aubigne

You may have heard of French entertainer Joseph Pujol, aka Le Pétomane, who worked in the late 19th and early 20th centuries farting on stage, but it is far less likely that you have heard the story of Anatole D'Aubigne. Born in 1902, D'Aubigne rose to international acclaim with his magnificent penmanship. If you struggle to understand how someone's penmanship, regardless of its perfect spacing, height, and skilled flourish, could possibly bring them fame the world over, take into consideration that Anatole D'Aubigne wrote with his anus.

As a young man in Bordeaux, Anatole discovered his strange talent after accepting a drunken bar bet. The bet was that he couldn't write his name legibly if he used a fountain pen sticking out of his anus. Placing the pen betwixt his hairy man cheeks, he knelt down and carefully wrote his full name in cursive using a combination of hip swivels and well-timed sphinctoral clenches. After he stood from his crouched position, the bar fell into stunned silence. When Anatole turned around, he realized the reason for the reaction -- his signature was perfect. In fact, it looked better than his regular handwriting. With realization of his newly discovered power, a single tear rolled down his cheek as he tossed the shit-soiled pen into the now-applauding crowd. His prize? Five francs and a handjob from the gruff but well-manicured bartender Francisque.

For nearly a year, Anatole made a living winning similar small bar bets in and around Bordeaux. As weeks passed, his penmanship grew more skilled and flowery. Women swooned when he wrote their names with his hypnotically waggling hindquarters, and men guffawed with approval when he wrote profane words in his intricate, borderline feminine cursive style. But Anatole knew that if he were to make it big, he had to move to the City of Lights, Paris. Using the penmanship money he'd accumulated, he opened a small music shop in Paris so that he could continue to earn money while he tried to win over the notoriously picky Parisians.

Working his way up from bar bets to appearing on stage in small cabarets, Anatole finally hit the big time when he was scheduled to appear as the main act at Odéon - Théâtre de l'Europe. On opening night, amidst his clanging nerves, Anatole rushed to the theater only to find he had left his most important prop at home, his pen. Desperately he asked stage hands and others back stage for a pen, but no one had one. He thought of asking for a pen from the audience, but surely they would laugh him off stage over such an amateurish mistake. Alas, he had no choice.

The curtains rose, and Anatole, as alone on stage as he was in the womb, cleared his throat, dropped his trousers, and took a breath, intending to announce that he needed a pen from the crowd. It was at that moment that he realized he didn't need a pen at all! He pushed, grunted quietly, produced a few centimeters of a firm turd protruding from his anus, and swiveled and puckered, using the feces to smear "Welcome to my show, gay Paris!" in perfectly formed cursive on a piece of canvas. The crowd went utterly insane. They realized they were witnessing a moment of historical genius.

Girl I Painted With My Ass
Anatole D'Aubigne, 1967
Throughout the rest of his life, Anatole continued to develop his act and his art. He added still-life drawings and eventually full-blown paintings to his repertoire. His paintings consisted of oil-based paints, water colors, and invariably a partially ejected turd. Many of his works hang to this day in the Louvre in Paris, though in the early 1950's, the museum had to shellac all of them due to complaints of the rank stench of feces wafting from the canvases. Critics complained this move ruined the symbolic nature of his art, but one curator responded, "Symbolic or not, I wouldn't put up with a wealthy artist framing his revered waste on our walls any more than a homeless man shitting in our atrium trash cans."

Anatole D'Aubigne died in his sleep in 1974 at the age of 72. He was posthumously awarded the Legion of Honor, signifying his rank of Chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur. In a speech at the ceremony, then-President Valéry Giscard d'Estaing declared D'Aubigne "...a hero of France. This man and his talented posterior have opened a window to the French soul and have opened our collective eyes and hearts to the love and appreciation of beauty. For this, we shall forever treasure our countryman, our brother, Anatole D'Aubigne."

This post dedicated to Griz.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Artist apologizes for sucking

Lzipia Poreschovtz, a 27-year-old artist living near downtown Minneapolis, issued a statement today apologizing for the quality of her art.

"To the people of Minneapolis, I offer you my most humble apologies. I realize now that the internal struggles I have are no different than those of anyone else and that my expressions of those conflicts through my paintings and performance art have been both overwrought and unoriginal. I'm particularly sorry for the following works: my painting of a dove carrying the peace symbol and shitting on George W Bush and former British Prime Minister Tony Blair, my photograph of myself feeling fat, unattractive, and judged by society, and every single instance in which I have performed an interpretive dance. I sincerely hope you can forgive me, even though I may never be able to forgive myself."

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

I don't like your art

I am a lover of art and artistic expression, but I don't like your art. It's fucked up and weird. Splattered paint on blown glass, paintings of John Travolta eating tacos, and plasticized dead horses mean nothing to me. Sure you can tell me outright that it's all about the death of free will and the birth of ignorance, but I still can't connect to your art. Make it more accessible. Paint a howling wolf mural on a conversion van, or sell me a couch-sized painting of Dutch windmills for $20. That's art I can understand. No more images of the pope painted with your semen and your hipster girlfriend's menstrual blood. I've got enough of my own weird shit to deal with. I don't have the mental energy to deal with yours, too.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Bees in the pink, socks in the stink

Son of a bitch! For all my weirded-out, creepy crawlies from my visit to the Walker on Sunday, I've realized that I am now officially obsessed with the work of Matthew Barney, namely his work related to his series of 5 films called the Cremaster Cycle. I haven't seen any of them, but check the website out, read the plotlines, look at the sculptures, and view the trailer. That is some fucked up shit. I'm painfully curious, but given the description of some of the scenes, I don't know if I'd be able to watch. For example, in Cremaster 2, there's a full penetration scene, but the dude's schlong has a beehive for a head. And in Cremaster 3, a character has dental work performed and suffers a prolapsed rectum (aka a "pink sock"). Gaaaah!!! I also hear tell there's a scene in one of the films which is basically him sticking assorted objects up his ass, but I don't know if that's true. If so, then DOUBLE GAAAAHH!!!!

I have no recollection of how I first ran across the Cremaster website or knowledge of Barney's work, but on Sunday when we walked into one room at the walker, I immediately said, "This looks very Matthew Barney-esque." Sure enough, the plaque on the wall described it as being a series of photos and sculptures related to Cremaster 2 (go to the website, click "Sculpture", then "The Drone's Exposition" and "Slug" to see the display currently at the Walker).

Bee hive dicks, pink socks, anal insertions, and a very conflicted Jeremy. What more can I say?

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Tour guide molested by drunken vagrant

I just spend the weekend playing tour guide for my friend maarmie ("maarmie" is her blog alias, as she wishes to remain anonymous there). Though it ended up being a fun-filled weekend, it wasn't without complications. There was a run-in with the law, I was scarred for life by modern art, and was sexually molested by a vagrant. I didn't take any photos, but maarmie took dozens, a few of which I've included. However, since she wishes to remain anonymous on her blog, I'm afraid I won't be posting any photos of her.

UPDATE: To see maarmie's (slightly differing) take on the weekend, she has started posting detailed accounts, and even *gasp* PHOTOS OF HERSELF!!!! She should have one or two more posts coming, and I'll post them here in the coming days.

maarmie's account:
-Sunday evening/Monday morning

Maarmie lives in Florida and had flown up to Bloomington, IL to stay with a friend of hers. Their original plan was to drive together to visit Minneapolis, stay in a hotel, and perhaps I would spend an evening or a weekend day with them if I was able. When her friend decided she could no longer afford the trip, maarmie decided to rent a car, come for a whole weekend, and accepted my invitation to crash at my place. I have a very comfortable guest bedroom and thought it would be fun to play tour guide for a couple days. As she recounts in detail, but her trip got of to a very rocky start when she was pulled over doing 26 mph over the limit in a work zone in Illinois (I'm pronouncing the ending "s", as in "ill-in-noise" because I know that annoys the piss out of them there). This was the hard way of discovering that Illinois does not fuck around with speeders in work zones. She was initially assigned a mandatory court appearance in August, and the prospect of spending money to fly back in August, take more time off from work, and pay what will surely be several hundred dollars in fines and fees sent her into a mild (and understandable) panic. I received at least 6 phone calls Friday morning as she debated cutting her losses by scrapping the Minneapolis leg of her journey. Thankfully, she has since managed to move up her court date so she won't have to go back in August.

Unfortunately amidst wavering on her resolve to drive the rest of way here, maarmie's cell phone battery died (she didn't have a car charger) and our last conversation didn't leave me with a definitive answer as to whether she was coming or not. So once home from work, I left a note on the door for her to knock on the basement window, as I planned to lift weights and run on the treadmill for a while. Just before I was about to finish 4 miles, the knock came. Now keep in mind that though we have corresponded by email and talked on the phone several times, this was the first time maarmie and I had met in person. I swung open the door, out of breath from running, dripping sweat, and stinking to hell. I'm all about first impressions! I invited her in, let her make herself at home, cleaned up, and we headed to St Paul for dinner.

Instead of going into our activities in exhaustive detail, I'll list the highlights and lowlights and insert anecdotes as necessary. Asterisks (*) mark activities I had never done, despite having lived in the Twin Cities area for nearly 7 years.

-Dinner at Axel's Bonfire on St Paul's Grand Avenue.
-A walk along Summit Ave to take in the historical houses and buildings, including a residence where F. Scott Fitzgerald briefly lived, and the James J. Hill mansion.
-*The stroll continued all the way to the Minnesota State Capitol building to marvel at its Renaissance style architecture and the dome modeled after St Peter's Basilica in Rome.
-A stop at Byerly's in Eagan for a few supplies to make breakfast and my favorite store bakery cake, the Triple Layer Chocolate Tiger cake (or something to that effect).

-A breakfast of scrambled eggs with peppers, onions, cheese, bacon, and sour cream, intended to be breakfast burritos, but I was so distracted by the prospect of cake that forgot to buy tortillas.
-A little over an hour at the Mall of America. This was not high on maarmie's list, but I insisted since it's only 10 minutes from my house and now she can at least say she's basked in the depthless bowels of the most obscene monument to American consumerism ever created.
-Some mandatory Caribou Coffee action.
-A light rail ride from the MOA to Nicollet Mall in downtown Minneapolis.
-Dinner and drinks at Chino Latino

Once downtown, we strolled along Nicollet Mall. After stopping for a few goofy photos with the Mary Tyler Moore statue, we listened to a band play a few songs at the Famous Dave's BBQ and Blues Festival in Peavey Plaza. When we had our fill (of music--no BBQ was consumed), we headed over to Hennepin to walk past the theaters and hit Block E for a bathroom break. Cutting over past the University of St Thomas, maarmie stopped to take a few photos, where we were immediately accosted by a scraggly guy asking for money to take the bus to St Paul. Per my standing policy of refusing to give money to people who beg for it, I politely but firmly declined to give him anything (I give money to charities that provide food and assistance to people who request it rather than directly to some clown to spend on drugs, booze, or otherwise piss it away). His reply was, "Oh yeah? Well now the mischief begins!" Given the tone of his voice and his sudden rush toward maarmie, I became concerned of his intentions and shifted my stance to prepare to tackle him. To our relief, he was just being a wise-ass and started waving is arms in front of her to block her camera shots. Though we'd realized his intentions were innocent and in good fun, the initial startled looks on our faces betrayed our fears. He apologized and moved on.

After whizzing in Block E (in the restrooms--they got upset when I pissed over the escalator railing last time), we marched on to walk past the Target Center and take some photos in front of the walls of stars outside First Avenue, the club featured in Prince's movie "Purple Rain". Thus began our second and most harrowing encounter with a begging vagrant. While rounding the corner to take some photos at the 1st Ave side of the building, we were confronted by a dude drunk off his heels. He wanted a dollar or two. Always a dollar or two with these guys! Not fifty cents, not a steaming ham sandwich on whole wheat, but a dollar or two. Given our previous encounter with a mind-altered wanderer, I was particularly agitated, more adamant in my refusal, and quickened my pace. He was persistent and kept blocking my path and trying to explain why he needed money in an unintelligible drunken slur. After a half-block, he mercifully gave up, and I checked over my shoulder to maarmie. She was nowhere to be seen.

"God dammit!" I uttered with a sigh, as I turned heel and practically power walked toward to 7th St. I just knew I would be harangued again by the drunken Fucknut McGee. As I neared the corner, I spotted maarmie snapping photos on the 7th St side of the building. She had abandoned me. ABANDONED, I tell you!! Trying to avoid having to walk past my favorite drunken asshole, now wobbling about on the corner, I called out her name several times to no avail. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Jeremy. This caught the attention of Shakey Surefoot, and he zeroed in. "You're back! Couldn't stay away!" he exclaimed, struggling to keep up with my determined pace. I ignored him, thought I'd caught eyes with maarmie and implored her to keep moving so we could lose this guy and come back around the block to take our photos. But she didn't hear me and continued snapping photos, forcing me to come to a dead stop.

Now he turned his attention to her. This time, instead of abandoning me again, she engaged him. NO! Even worse. As she raised her camera to him, I heard something to the effect of "You have a very interesting face. I'd like to take your photo." Despite two glaring what-the-fuck lasers shooting out of my eyes straight through her head, she snapped a daring close-up of his face, and he was now slightly incensed. Somehow, she calmed him down, and the next thing I knew, I was being handed her camera to take a photo of the two of them together. My what-the-fuck lasers dissipated in a cloud of confusion. Damn her and her Jedi mind tricks!

Pleased with the results on the digital camera's preview screen, Wobble Man, cheerfully offered his phone number so maarmie could mail him a copy of the photo. She politely explained that was unlikely to happen, and continued to hold the coherent side of one of the most puzzling conversations I've heard in recent memory. As they continued chatting/slurring, I decided that his cooperation with her desire for a photo warranted breaking my rules, and I surreptitiously fished a couple dollar bills from my pocket. Once they wrapped up their chat, I said "I usually don't do this, but..." I didn't know how to finish the "but" and handed him the money. A wide grin crossed his face, and he thanked me. He turned to maarmie and slapped her a painfully forceful high five, then grabbed me into a bear hug, and thrust his pelvis toward me several times. *Had I just been dry humped??? I felt dirty as he teetered away, but we were now free to snap our photos, hop onto the train, and head to Eagan to clean ourselves of wino funk and eat lunch. And definitely in that precise order.

Wanting my guest to experience some of Minnesota's finest gourmet food, I had Spam and lefse on hand. But I was left crushed as maarmie vehemently declined my insistent offers of canned meat. Nuts to her! I happily chowed down on a Turkey Spam sandwich with swiss cheese, jalapeno mustard, and ketchup, as she nibbled on her inferior grapes. Fruit-- I laugh at it--HA!! She did partake in lefse, however, and was spellbound as I buttered and sugared the shit out of the tortilla-like sheet. "That can't be good for you!" she protested. Of course it's not! Is pepperoni pizza good for you? Is a big ol' fatty steak good for you? Hells no! But you don't eat that shit every day any more than you eat butter and sugar rolled up in potatoes and flour. At first, she was taken aback by the gritty texture of the sugar, but once it melted with the first bite, she grabbed another piece and wolfed it down. I told her it was good!

After our mid-afternoon lunch, we both had much-needed naps, gabbed a while, and then got cleaned up and changed clothes to go out to Chino Latino with my friend Mary. Once in Uptown, we wandered around Calhoun Square and the shops in the surrounding area. At Chino, we enjoyed our $13 Crack Ho Mojitos and had an unsurprisingly incredible meal of Coconut Shrimp Curry and Philippine Paella with plenty of leftovers to take home.

After maarmie finished some sort of berry martini-looking drink, we headed over to the Uptown Bar to throw back a few more. I wasn't really in the mood to get plowed, so I just had a couple of Blue Moons, but maarmie downed at least 4 or 5 Midori Sours and was having herself a grand time, much to the delight and amusement of Mary and I. Though upon light of morning, she was a tad worried she'd offended Mary with some of her ribald stories. I assured her that Mary has heard far more colorful remarks and tales tumble from my foul cesspool of a word hole.

Though maarmie longed to go elsewhere for a few more drinks (I should point out that she is not normally a heavy drinker, but felt like living it up that night), we adjourned rather early and were back at my house by around 11:30. With her still quite tipsy and me half-asleep, we stumbled through a cloud of hazy conversation for several minutes then realized it was time to retire to our respective beds.

-*A couple hours hiking around Minnehaha Park in Minneapolis, including to the area below the falls.
-A lunch at home consisting of leftovers from Chino Latino.
-*A jarring visit to the Walker Art Center.
-*A stroll through the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden, featuring one of our most photographed local landmarks, Spoonbridge and Cherry (though it was in the middle of being refinished and looked horrible)
-*A walk across the Irene Hixon Whitney Bridge over I-94 to Loring Park
-*A sampling of ice cream with cayenne pepper in it followed by a delicious ice cream cone at Sebastian Joe's Ice Cream Cafe just down Hennepin from the Walker.
-Dinner at Mystic Lake Casino with my aunt, uncle, and cousin, who happened to come into town that night, and my brother and his wife, who'd just returned the day before from 10 days of gallivanting about Europe.
-Losing money in the slot and video poker machines.
-S'mores by the fire in the back yard.

Prior to Sunday, I had never been to the Walker and now am not sure that I could bring myself to ever return. Much to the consternation of maarmie, has a deep appreciation of the arts, my verbatim assessment of the Walker: it's a bunch of weird, random crap. For a 30-year-old former hick from North Dakota, I like to think I have a very open mind, but the collection of modern art at the Walker left me mystified. Films of an old man breaking apart a ceramic bunny with a brick projected near another of a man in a bunny suit firing a pistol out a window. A wrecked Pontiac Grand Am recreated piece by crumpled piece in monotone fiberglass. A film of a small girl reading a book quietly to herself on a grassy hill. What the fuck? What drives me nuts about subjective art is that I could shit into a watermelon, force feed it to a horse, cut off the horse's dick, sew the dick on its head to make it a dick-o-corn, freeze it in a portable meat locker, and a group of turtle neck-wearing beatniks wearing thick emo glasses would applaud my genius, buy it and donate it to the Guggenheim where more turtle neck-wearing beatniks would discuss my dick-o-corn as commentary on the oppressive nature of patriarchal societies.

My other problem with the Walker was the atmosphere. I became increasingly creeped out wandering through room after dull, stark white room, all the while breathing in a musty smell reminiscent of a rarely cleaned parking ramp stairwell. Though I'm not claustrophobic and am not prone to environmental panic, I felt boxed in by the eerie emptiness of the rooms and needed to just plain get the fuck out of there. I didn't want to ruin maarmie's experience there, but when I'm extremely uncomfortable, I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut. I think it's because focusing on pissing and moaning distracts from what I'm pissing and moaning about. Fortunately, the Walker is smaller than I expected, and after a stop to peruse the gift shop, we headed across the street to the Minneapolis Sculpture garden.

Originally we'd planned on dinner at Psycho Suzi's Motor Lounge, but my uncle had emailed me a few days beforehand to let me know he, my aunt, and my cousin would be staying out at the Mystic Lake Casino Hotel Sunday night. I felt bad dragging maarmie to a casino for dinner with people she doesn't know, but she actually seemed to look forward to it, as she'd never been on a reservation or in a casino before. Yes, really.

After a nice dinner with the family clan, my brother and sis-in-law went home to sleep off European jet lag, and maarmie and I went out to wander around the casino floor. I probably lost about $20 total, and we soon both decided it was time to go home. But the clutches of the casino's enormity and winding aisles had me all turned around. It was like being trapped at Ikea (I just want to buy damn pencil holder and go home!!!). I'll bet we wandered looking for the right exit for 20 minutes, with more and more steam shooting out my ears as the seconds ticked by.

Following a trip to the store for supplies to make s'mores at the fire pit in my back yard (maarmie had never had fireside s'mores before, either), we retired for the evening. Maarmie left Monday morning when I headed out to work at about 7:30 and arrived safely in Bloomington, IL late in the afternoon. My first cross-country meeting of a fellow blogger went off without a hitch, we both had a great time, and I wasn't murdered in my sleep. Always a bonus. I got a huge kick out of playing host and tour guide and sincerely hope maarmie will come back sometime. An offer has been extended to visit her in Florida, and perhaps once my new job settles after a few months, I will try to do just that. Now I just need to find a blog friend in Hawaii!